


Made in Bodhum

by CB812



Category: Final Fantasy XIII, Final Fantasy XIII Series, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, And Jason Bourne, Coz apparently every fandom needs a soulmate AU, Elements of Cinderella, F/M, Less angst more action, Modern AU, Your scars show up on your soulmate’s body, no magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 13:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16018661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CB812/pseuds/CB812
Summary: Prompt: Modern AUPrince Noctis sets out on an epic adventure...to find his soulmate.Your scars show up on your soulmate’s body. Noct is covered in scars, Light is a ‘blank’. They are each other’s soulmates, go figure.Soulmate/scars AU crossed with elements of Cinderella and Jason Bourne, set in a modern universe.





	Made in Bodhum

 

Part 1 – Scar / 跡

 

 

Every kid remembers their first scar.

The crown prince of Lucis did not recall a thing about the royal celebrations that were thrown for his fourth birthday – not the chocobo-themed party, nor the chaste peck on his cheek from the princess of Tenebrae – but he remembered waking up the next morning with a scar.

It was fresh – pink and shiny, about three centimetres long running just below his hairline to the corner of his brow. His caretakers were horrified, though the young prince beamed with pride, bursting into the council room to show off his ‘special-est birthday present’ to his father. The scar soon faded to a pale white line, hardly visible behind the boy’s dark fringe.

He was a year older when he had tumbled down the stairs while riding his bike – yes, little Noctis had been riding his bike _inside_ the palace – and cut himself a good one on his shin. Tears prickled at his eyes, but the prince smiled. The cut was deep. It was going to scar!

The royal physician had tended to the wound himself, stitching the edges together in a perfect line, before treating it with a disinfectant and a ‘quick-heal’ _(*a product of Oracle pharmaceuticals – seals your wound instantly with a no-scar guarantee! your soulmate will love you for life!)_ , amidst the boy’s sobs. “But how is she going to find me? She’s still waiting for her first scar. She’ll think I don’t care about her!”

The king chuckled while his caretakers gushed about what a sweet boy the young prince was, and soothed him with words of appeasement. “You can show her you care for her by not giving her unsightly scars.”

His soulmate certainly didn’t care about disfiguring him. More scars accumulated over time. A long one down his shin, a horrid starburst-like cicatrix on the back of his hand that could only be the result of a nasty burn. Scraps and nicks on his face and arms that came and went.

It was during his later teens that the scars started appearing with an alarming regularity.

First were the marks on his fingers. “Maybe she plays some sort of racket sports?” Prompto suggested, holding his best friend’s hand up for closer inspection.

But that didn’t explain the larger gashes and lacerations that came after. The locations were unusual – no area of his body was spared but they had a distinct tendency to accumulate on the back of his left forearm. The ugly mess of criss-crossing lines alarmed the royal court, so the prince had taken to wearing a glove on his non-dominant hand since.

“Maybe she’s a zookeeper, works with big animals?” Prompto offered. _If so, she had to be a pretty terrible one._ He thought to himself.

The tingling sensation that preceded the arrival of new marks was now a well-accustomed familiarity. So no one in the Crownsguard had been prepared for their charge’s ear-piercing shriek one late summer’s evening.

“Just a fingertip amputation, no need to scream the whole palace down.” Ignis admonished. Prompto stuck to his guns, pointing out that even the giant vampire bats were known to take a chunk out of their minders every now and then. “There’s a reason they’re called ‘Niblets’, adorable little fuzzball aren’t they?” Still, it bothered him to think of his soulmate in such a dangerous profession.

Often, he would run his fingers tenderly over the scars, mapping coarse skin and raised edges, thin lines and thicker calluses. It was a silly notion – how could he love someone that he had never met, never flirted with, never held or kissed? But an illogical part of him insisted that he did. And when she got hurt he loved her even more.

He bore the scars but she bore the pain. He was a prince who could have anything he desired, yet he had no way of comforting his own soulmate when she was hurt.

The worst was when he woke one morning looking like he had been mauled, with slashes of varying depths and what looked to be penetrating stab-like wounds all over his body. “She’s been mugged, left for dead!” Fear gripped him. _What if his soulmate is dead?_

“Or maybe, she just ran into a glass door. I mean, we all know she’s so klutzy she makes Prompto look like an ice dancer.” Ignis pointed out, deferring to logic and reason.

So what if his soulmate was a klutz? He wasn’t the epitome of grace under fire either. If it wasn’t for the ‘quick-heal’ sprays that Tenebrae regularly supplied to Lucis, he would have given her more than a few marks to remember him by as well.

 

 

 

Part 2 – Raid / 击

 

 

_Task Force Viper takes out XX! The COE (Children of Etro) leader had claimed responsibility for the Luxerion bombings._

 

_Sources report Task Force Viper to be behind raid on Niflheim base. Bodhum refuses to break silence._

 

_Former Chancellor Dysley expected to attend peace talks in Insomnia, King Regis continues to spearhead reconciliation efforts._

 

The political newsfeed was still scrolling across the flat-screen television when the guards announced Noctis’ arrival to the king’s quarters at the grand palace.

“You summoned me, Dad?”

“I ‘summoned you’ three days ago, Noct. About time you finally showed yourself.” The king raised a hand to ward off any excuses from his son. “Our foreign embassy is hosting delegates from the peace summit. I’ll be expecting you at the banquet tonight. And for Etro’s sake, cover up that mark on your face.”

After trying out a variety of band-aids, and realising that all of them made him look like a pubescent boy trying to cover up a bad case of acne, the prince finally caved and went in search for help.

“She’s a cold-hearted one, marring your face like that.” Luna murmured as she disguised the scar with a concealer crayon. “This is what, the fifth scar on your face now? Good thing your skin takes well to our latest scar-removers products. It’s bad enough that you have to wear long-sleeved Tees all the time, does she expect you to wear a mask as well?”

“Now come’ere, your tie’s a mess. Honestly, Noct...”

Noctis gave her an apologetic grin. The two had grown up together, and the royal houses of Lucis and Tenebrae had hoped for a union between their two heirs. She was a sweet girl, warm-hearted, and beautiful inside and out. But his heart belonged to his soulmate. 

Noctis spent the entire night being bored out of his mind and fiddling with his tie. The prince’s entourage had not been allowed to attend the event with him; Dysley’s paranoia meant that even the Kingsglaive were restricted to patrolling the perimeter, with no armed personnel permitted inside the building apart from the chancellor’s aids Nabaat and Rosch.

“Prince Noctis...the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, you’ve grown into a fine young man.”

Noctis felt his skin crawl. If there was ever a competition for the face of evil, Dysley would be a hard act to surpass. Even Aldercapt would only be a strong second behind the man currently addressing him.

This man was a mass murderer, the figurehead behind the purge of Cocoon two decade ago. He had been too young to see the news footage, but he had heard the stories. The only reason why his father hadn’t joined the rest of the world in calling for the man’s head was because he feared the repercussions of more insurgency attacks. The peace of recent years had been so painstakingly won. Still, rumours abounded that Dysley was planning something, something big. Lucis agents in Palumpolum were even suggesting that the madman had secretly reinstated the Orphan project.

“Sir, we’ve received news of an assassination plot. We need to get you in the air at once!”

Noctis watched as Dysley’s wretched face twitched, the man’s long spidery fingers clenching on top his ruby-encrusted cane.

Within minutes, his ears were assaulted by the swish-swash of a copter hovering overhead. Everything that happened next seemed to pass in slow motion, and yet too fast for anyone to react.

Glass and skylights shattered. And then the ropes dropped from the sky, black-clad figures slithering down the hundred foot rappels in a matter of seconds.

Without warning, the lights went out, casting the building’s occupants in a cloak of darkness. Noctis didn’t panic. The embassy, like all other buildings in the Citadel, was equipped with state-of-the-art anti-night vision technology. So this blackout was, in fact, a fail-safe gambit in event of an incursion. An ambush relied on speed, stealth and catching the target off guard. With both sides blinded, the attackers would lose the element of surprise, and the ambush would be reduced to a fight.  

Before his eyes could adjust to the departed light, there was a bright flash in the corner of his vision, followed by the distinctive crack of a firearm being discharged.

Three flashes, three shots. Three thuds on the floor.

By now the Glaives had swept into the premises. With the pull of a switch, the emergency lights flickered back on. The raiding party was already beating a retreat, darting out of broken windows and scaling up the walls of the building in unison.

The last to leave was the man he presumed to be the leader of the squad, and judging by the smoking gun in his hand, the one who had fired the shots. He had a reverse hold on the flashlight in his other hand, which was pressed against the back of his gun-hand in a technique that allowed the user to simultaneously hold a gun and a torch, while maintaining two-handed stabilisation of the weapon. 

Honestly, the gunman looked more like a small-time criminal than the commander of an elite platoon of mercenaries. His face was covered in a tactical ski-mask and he carried minimal gear – no heavy armaments, no Kevlar vest, no night goggles, not even a rifle! No wonder the bastards could scale the sides of the fort like a bunch of spider-monkeys. 

A spate of bullets had the man hurling himself behind a pillar, but he didn’t return fire at the Glaives.

“Let’s go!” His teammate yelled at him.

“Noct, are you ok?” A hand on his shoulder spun him around. General Leonis gave his future sovereign a quick once-over for injuries, before relieving the Glaive beside him of his SCAR rifle and training its sights on the fleeing mercenary leader. 

A squeeze of the trigger. This time the tingling sensation felt more like a shock of pins and needles, shooting up Noctis’ leg from his ankle. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips.

“Relax, I only clipped his heels.” The general grunted, signalling his men. “Get to the roof. I want them alive. Shoot down the chopper if you have to. You two, stay here to guard the pr– “

Said prince was already out of sight, hurtling up the secret fire escape that led to the roof, heedless of the danger.

The draft of wind that hit him as he emerged from the hatch wasn’t quite as overwhelming as the din of churning rotors and gunfire. The hijacked transport had swooped in close for the extrication. Blades whirled loudly. The chopper was starting to gain lift, its convoy hooked on to a rigging attached to the landing gears. Noctis made a mad dash toward it.  

Immediately the firing line halted.

Squinting through the whipping winds, he locked sights on his target. The limping figure had reached the departing chopper in the nick of time, pausing to tangle an arm in the rig, before ripping a flash-grenade from his belt.

Another two strides and a lunge, Noctis flung himself at him, latching on to a bloodied combat boot.

The two bodies dangled precariously, some twenty feet in the air. The grenade had been knocked clear of the commander’s hand, which was now reaching toward a blade strapped to his thigh.

The knife flashed, as did Noctis’ life before his eyes. But the man had simply hacked through the laces of his boot in a single slash. Now free of its bindings, the boot – and Noctis with it – was easily kicked off the encumbered foot.

Gravity seized him, the fleeting image of a pair of electric-blue eyes accompanying his two-second free-fall, before he was snapped back to reality by a hard jolt and a barrel-roll.

In the distance, Insomnia’s clock tower struck midnight, a loud gong ringing out through the city.

His fingers still clutched the half-shredded military boot to his chest. He flipped it over, gaze lingering over the three words etched onto the worn outsole.

_‘Made in Bodhum’_

.

“Headshots...deadly accuracy.”

“An assassination...in our jurisdiction!”

“The audacity! Insomnia will not stand for this, the criminals have to be arrested and put on trial in our high court.”

Noctis groaned, rolling on his back, nursing a minor concussion. His tuxedo was ruined, and with the little stunt that he had just pulled, so was his reputation in the eyes of the king and his council.

The voices continued to drift in from the next room. “Wayward son”, “utter lack of common sense”, “responsible for half my white hair”...

He traced the new scar on his ankle. It wasn’t as bad as he had feared; the hot lead had only grazed through. But the truth was staring him in the face – _the owner of this boot had to be his soulmate!_

“The owner of this boot just executed Garent Dysley and his two lieutenants under our noses in broad daylight.” His advisor had vastly different priorities. 

“Technically it was at night and the shots were fired in the dark.” Prompto chimed in. “Still, that’s some freakish marksmanship.”

“I’ll admit, it is hard to fathom how that little demon could be the same walking klutz that is Noct’s soulmate.”

“A size 8.” Gladio’s turn to inspect the ruined field-boot. “The owner of this boot is either a girl, or some guy who’s definitely _not_ packing.”

“You know that’s not scientifically proven, right?”

“You tryin to tell us something Noct?”

“I’m a size 12!”

 

 

 

Part 3 – Island /島

 

 

_Welcome to paradise!_

 

_Marvel at the unspoilt beauty of Bodhum’s pristine beaches and tropical islands – ideal for diving, snorkelling, fishing or sailing._

 

_Catch your Vitamin-Seas today! Remember, life is always better on the island!_

 

 _Sign up with Divers-R-US – our experienced crew will show you how to go_ deeper _and_ longer _!_

 

The flyer that had been shoved in his face was tossed aside with a groan. Insomnia might be accused of championing peace while building up an army on the side, but at least they weren’t a military powerhouse dressed up as a literal island paradise. Half the country’s revenue from international tourism was funnelled into its armed forces, and in particular, its elite special ops unit – the Bodhum Calvary.

The prince and his quartet had arrived in Bodhum two weeks after the events of the peace-talks, via King Regis’ private jet. The cover-story was that he was here in the capacity of a royal ambassador, conducting an official inquiry into Bodhum’s involvement in the Dysley hit job. But the real mission was, of course, to find his soulmate.

Thankfully the king had mistaken his son’s eagerness to undertake the mission as an attempt to make up for his foolish actions which led to the getaway of the ‘terrorists’ and the near loss of Lucis’ sole heir.

“For someone who’s spent years pining over his soulmate, you sure have no qualms checking out the ladies. Not that I blame you – the chicks here are smooooking hot!” Prompto whistled lowly, whilst sipping a coconut.

Noctis ignored him, too preoccupied with scanning the locale for any semi-athletic-looking female and comparing them to the phantom he pictured in his head.

_Too tall, too thin, chest is definitely too big, eyes not blue enough..._

“So, Noct, what’s the grand plan? Surely you’re not planning on doing this all day.”

The prince smiled, producing the precious boot that he had stashed away in his carry-on bag.

 _“This_.”

Ignis raised an eyebrow, and Noctis wondered if his advisor was rolling his eyes behind his tinted anti-glare glasses.

“Alright, Prince Charming. Let’s go find your Cinderella.”

.

 _‘The Vestige’_ was shrouded in secrecy. Seated at the co-pilot’s seat, Noctis had an expansive view of the eponymous island-fortress that was their destination. The amphibious aircraft had flown close to sea level, so much so that he could see the chilly winds stirring the waves into a stiff chop, even taste the salty tang of seabreeze.

“Flying under the radar.” Sazh the pilot had explained. “Those turrets will shoot down any bird that gets too close, friendly colours or not. Talk about tight security!”

The Vestige was actually an islet about fifty miles off the coast of the main peninsula. No more than the size of a large battleship, the island-fortress was composed almost entirely of rocky terrain and a built-in military fort framed by tall seawalls that that blended seamlessly into the jaggered ridge of the coastline.

The sea around it was equally treacherous – if the strong currents didn’t deter any vessels from approaching, surely the underwater mines would. 

“No one can get in, no one can get out.” He recalled Ignis description of the place.

“Brace for landing!” Sazh hollered as the seaplane tilted on a wing, diving sharply toward a little cove.

Suppressing their nausea from the spine-jarring touchdown, the quartet looked up at the towering cliffs above them. Wind-blown waves swept in from the restless sea crashing onto the rockface. A bolted rope hung from a broken section of the crag.

Noctis rubbed seawater from his eyes. “Now what?”

Sazh gestured to the slick rock.

“Now we climb!” He grinned.

.

Some time and alot of ass-hauling later, the Lucis party arrived at the top of the fort, where they were received by a senior ranking officer, a man known only as ‘The Marshall Chief’. Prompto squinted at the emblem sewn onto The Chief’s neatly pressed uniform, struggling to make out the tiny words beneath it.  

“That’s the Calvary’s moto. It’s Etro script for: ‘We create our own fate.’” Noctis supplied.

The Chief wasn’t impressed. “So let me get this straight.” He drummed his fingers on his office table, as rain drummed against the parade ground outside. Noctis thanked his lucky stars that they had made it in before the downpour.

“To prove our innocence in the Dysley homicide, you want us to line up all our blue-eyed female operatives, just for them to try on this mangled boot?!”

“Every last one.” Noctis affirmed. “Oh, and one thing you should know. Ig here is a walking lie-detector. He can tell if you’re trying to fool us, then we’ll know for sure that you really have something to hide.”

The somewhat stringent criteria narrowed the list of potentials down to a mere handful. With each negative match, Noctis felt his heart sinking deeper.

The last candidate, a wild-haired Pulsian code-named ‘Fang’, flat out refused to try on the boot, protesting that her feet would “burst through the seams”, and that her eyes were “more of a greenish-blue than pure blue anyway”.

“Besides, if I were the one who sent the old man to meet the Maker, you’d be damn sure I’d be taking full credit for it.” 

“The Calvary did not order the hit on Dysley.” The Chief reiterated, crossing his arms over his chest and popping his ‘guns’, looking straight at Ignis at he did so.

“He’s not lying, Noct.”

“There must be someone missing!” He insisted. “Maybe she’s deployed on a mission, or she’s laying low till the political fallout settles down.”  

“On my word as The Chief of this camp, none of our members have been allowed off base. With the world’s suspicions directed at us – no thanks to you folk I might add – the Calvary was quick to recall all our field operatives who might be in danger of a revenge strike.” 

Noctis shot a glance over his shoulder at his advisor, who shook his head once more.

The prince’s disappointment was palpable, but he tried for one last shot. “Then how do you explain _this_?” He punctuated the question by gesticulating at the incriminating words on the boot’s sole.

The Chief shrugged. “It’s not unheard of for mercenaries to stockpile Bodhum-made tactical gear. But if circumstantial evidence is all you’ve got, then I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut this little field-trip short.”

He clasped the crestfallen prince on the shoulder. “I’m sorry that this has been a wasted outing, son. But perhaps you boys can enjoy our exquisite beaches before you go.”  

.

It didn’t make sense.

It was like having all the pieces of a jigsaw, but realising they didn’t fit into place.

“Where are you?” He whispered to the shadows, the flickering forms providing a certain parallelism to the elusive spectre that was his soulmate.

 _“Who_ are you?”

The lights of the penthouse suite had been doused, but sleep did not come to the young prince, who found himself being kept awake first by his own ruminations, then by a persistent tingling on his right hip.

He ignored it, having had enough soulmate drama for one day.

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye had him snapping up in bed, only to meet the cold barrel of a pistol. His assailant grimaced. A drop of blood dribbled down the valley of her throat, courtesy of the switchblade being pressed into it. Moonlight washed in through the open window. The intruder hadn’t bothered with the hassle of concealing her identity. He recognized the wild crop of hair and full-sleeved tattoos that had Gladio nodding with approval.

“Where’re your bodyguards?” The woman – ‘Fang’, he recalled her name was – questioned.

“My _friends_ have gone out to enjoy Bodhum’s nightlife.”

“I’ll bet, our party beaches are something else.” The lethal weapon was withdrawn.

“You were inquiring ‘bout Light today, what’s your real motive?” If her Pulsian features hadn’t given away her ancestry, then surely her thick drawl did.

“Who’s Light?”

“I don’t know how she did it.” The operative began pacing about the room, expecting him to follow her inane rambling.

“Light’s part turtle, but that’s still a free dive to fifteen metres, and then a hundred metre swim pass the beacons before coming up for air. Say she did skirt the watchers, that’ll leave her with fifty miles of rough sea between her and the nearest coastline – a full _day’s_ swim even in good conditions.”

“Plus she’s been in The Brig for the past two weeks. The hell did she get out from there?”

At his uncomprehending look she waved her hand impatiently. “Dark black hole in the ground ’bout the size of a really large air-vent. Punishment for violating the Chain of Command. Isolation does things to the mind.” She shuddered.

He frowned, still drawing a blank.

“Solitary confinement.”

Finally, two words that made sense. No, more than just that – everything made sense now.

“I was gonna sneak her some grub, y’know, since they feed you only once every three days in there. And that’s how I discovered that she’s gone.” The Pulsian woman had gone back to talking over his head.

“I’ve made inquiries with the coast guard, no bodies washed up shore. Worst thing is that her tracker’s gone silent – I had Van check. Light wouldn’t drop off the grid just like that, not without...”

She paused, before abruptly turning on a heel and strolling to the door, throwing him a little wave over her shoulder. “I’ll see myself out. You know the drill – don’t breath a word about this to anyone, or else I’m gonna have ta kill ya.”

“Hey, wait!”

“I’m coming with you.”

.

Fang drummed her fingers against the wheel of the jeep SUV as she turned into a private neighbourhood, navigating the network of criss-crossing streets that spun out like a spider’s web. As they passed by pretty country villas bordered by white picket fences, Noctis wondered what it would be like to grow up in a place like this.

Beside him, Fang’s twitchiness was evident, despite her easy smiles and laid-back demeanour of someone who was just cruising through life and enjoying every minute of it.

Noctis himself was a mixture of eagerness and confusion, though he shared in his companion’s anxiety. An hour ago, he was still in the dark about who his soulmate was. And now he had a name. A codename perhaps, but it didn’t matter. For the first time in over two decades, he had a name to go with these mysterious scars.

 _Light_...I hope you’re okay.

But how could she be okay? She just spent the past two weeks locked up in a hole and half-starved as some form of twisted punishment inflicted by her own guild.  Then somehow escaped incarceration, broke the Guinness record for the world’s longest breath-hold, and followed that up with a fifty-mile endurance swim, battling strong currents, unforgiving temperatures, and the limits of physical and mental exhaustion.

Super-soldier. Not only a name, he also had a profession to match these suddenly not-so-mysterious scars.

His stream of thoughts was broken by Fang taking a sharp right, guiding the jeep up a gravelled driveway.

“Where is this? And why are we here?” Noctis asked as he climbed out of the vehicle after her.

“A long shot, but if anyone knows anything ‘bout why Light has suddenly ‘gone black’ – no pun intended – Serah’s our girl.”

Serah turned out to be a young woman who looked fresh out of college, with the most unusual pink tresses and eyes that were as blue as the night was black, and pinched with the same worry that compelled her two late-night visitors to seek her out at this hour. After exchanging greetings with Fang and scrutinising looks with Noctis, she ushered them into the house.

“Light’s in trouble isn’t she?” Serah asked plainly, once her guests were seated. “Is this about the incident in Insomnia?”

“I can’t answer that Ser...you know that stuff’s classified.”

“Fang, I can recognize my sister’s handiwork anywhere.” Serah took a seat across from them. “But this is more than just that, isn’t it? If I were to guess, something bad has gone down and Light’s decided to take matters into her own hands, and now the Calvary want you to hunt down their rogue operative – your best friend.”

Noctis narrowed his eyes at the Pulsian. She had conveniently left out _that_ part of the story.

“It’s ironic.” The pinkette continued. “You always struck me as the loose cannon between the two of you. That’s why they passed you over as commander of Viper.”

“I guess the saying is true – beware the quiet ones.” The Cheshire grin never left Fang’s face. “And the Calvary has always been wary of their ‘perfect soldier’, so they took the opportunity to covertly implant a tracker in her when she took a stray bullet during the Niflheim raid.” 

“But the tracker’s gone silent. That’s the reason you’re here.” Serah finished for her.

“C’mon Ser, talk to me. It’s better that I get to her before _they_ do. The powers-that-be will just throw her back in The Brig for a couple weeks, maybe a month tops. I’ll look out for her, hell I was even going to bring her some steak today before she decided to go all ‘Jason Bourne’ on us.”

Serah took a deep steadying breath, letting loose a weary sigh. From the front pocket of her sweatshirt, she drew out an iphone-13. Noctis caught a glimpse of the lock screen photo before Serah’s thumb was swiped over it – the side profile of a woman, an older version of Serah, with what looked like a lightning-shaped pendant resting in the hollow between her collarbones.

“This is the only message she left me. It was sent this morning.” She handed the device to Fang.

“‘Surf’s up, gone to catch it. Love, Light.’ Sure, be all cryptic Light.”

“Can you trace it?”

“I can have Van give it a try, see if we can pick up her tail.” Fang immediately went to work placing a couple of phone calls.

Serah turned to him. “Are you from the Calvary too? Light’s never mentioned you before.”

A shake of his head. “Just someone who cares a lot about her.” He answered cryptically.

“Thank you.” Despite the air of tension in the room, Serah forced a smile. “My sister has always been a little accident prone.”

 _A little?_ His entire body was proof of just how accident prone she was.

“I would go searching for her if I could, but I’m being tracked too. I have this bad feeling...”

“Serah, your sister’s alive.” He clutched at his still tingling hip, pulling his shirt farther over the cicatrix forming on it. “I can’t tell you how, but I just know.”

“And I’m going to find her.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> First try at something a little more action a little less angst, just some fun for Lightis week. 
> 
> Always had the headcannon that Light was a lifeguard / free diver before joining the Corps, so she's had some breath-hold training. I'm not sure what's the world record for open water free dive, but a hundred metres sounds just within the realms of human possibility (I could be wrong). 
> 
> But let's face it, that was close to 5k words just so I could put a bullet between Dysley's cold evil eyes.


End file.
